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zingmagazine10 autumn 1999

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8 poets making it new
samples
smylonnylon
share
caveat
generation z
blt
lutwidge finch
rel(ev)ations
the back of beyond
reviews

Miching Mallecho

by Walid Bitar

 

Should I begin to sink,

my kleptomaniacal mind

would lift the ship in question,

my mode of answering,

my mode of exploding

like a population doubling

every 20 years,

my mode of pretending

this explosion is a tune,

out of key,

like a lock that's bent,

my mode of pretending

you yourself are bent,

right angles your specialty:

head to ass squared

times ass to heels squared

equals eyes to toes squared.

I could pretend anything:

that the front is the back

side of a postcard,

so whatever I write

looks like graffiti

on the Venuses de Milo,

the Arcs of Ctesiphon,

the views of Land's End.

What's said you can't see,

no more than paint can,

and you can't hear,

no more than sound can:

your skull, as if biting

the mouth that fed it,

pokes through your skin,

decomposing tropically,

so that your ears seem

to make mincemeat of these words.

And this one consolation:

they'd make mincemeat of silence.